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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25304575">His Name</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvusamongus/pseuds/corvusamongus'>corvusamongus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>These Are The Kids [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:54:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,791</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25304575</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvusamongus/pseuds/corvusamongus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivier has started a new chapter in his life, and he and his father Theron are back at Val Royeaux to celebrate. Theron revels in a dearly missed taste of Antivan wine over Dalish mead, but he senses something sour in its usually timidly sweet notes. He assesses how he raised his elven son, and if he truly deserved the honor Olivier granted him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>These Are The Kids [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1384708</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>His Name</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Theron took a sip from the platinum goblet. He hummed in bliss, and the tenseness in his brow ceased, as if the silky, sweet, and slightly acidic notes of Antivan grapes melted away the frozen winter air as it settled into his taste buds. </p><p>Ages, it feels like ages -- surely it’s the longest he’s ever gone without relishing in the refinement of an imported Antivan wine. Theron had always been nomadic. Dalish living was that, but with an obviously different flavor. He’d survived months of trotting around the woods, shying away from greater society. There were no more politics or nobles up your ass. It was heavenly. Much like his Orlesian human family, he was showered with love and respect, with several bastards who loudly complained of your strong human, cologned stench. As wonderful as it was, the culture shock was difficult. Days in which he learned the routines ended in an evening drowned in mead, measly attempts to refill his depleted soul. Dalish mead was satisfactory. Nasty, ginger-y taste, but two-three shots and you’d feel your spirit slip into the Fade. It just felt barbaric in comparison. </p><p>He despised visiting his favored Orlesian capital in the winter season. It was the combined sensations of tasteful wine, being surrounded by buildings that glowed golden, the sophisticated tavern tunes, and — just for today— being able to wear his heavy bear coat that relieved his soul. It would have been handy in the Free Marches’ deadly tundra, but he thought it too expensive of a garment to succumb to their primitive activities. Instead, he wore it to tease jealousy in the faces of Orlais’ elite. Of course, no one passing their table at the outdoor tavern gave a shit.</p><p>His eyes drifted to the elven young man across the table, who was staring off into the distance in his familiar, silent pondering. Theron slowly set his goblet down on the circular wooden table.</p><p>The elf was wrapped around a brown cloak, hood over his head, and body scrunched up to preserve his body heat. Cold air shot out his nose as his eyes drifted around the Orlesians waltzing about the streets, separated from the diners by a two-foot wall. Theron could see that the boy was shivering, but the boy’s expression didn’t read discomfort. In fact, a hint of a smile appeared on his lips, as he crossed his legs and hugged himself tighter -- all of this still embedded in his thoughts.</p><p>“Olivier,” escaped Theron’s mouth, almost in a melodic drawl as he let the name dance along his tongue. Olivier glanced at him, attentive, until Theron shook his head and grinned. The boy raised an eyebrow, but returned his gaze to the passers-by with a mirrored smile. </p><p>Discomfort on Theron’s tongue surfaced, suddenly, like a bad aftertaste, and slowly, he closed his mouth. </p><p>This name was beautiful, new— days old. It wasn’t a rightful event for concern; yes, he should be celebrating — not only because of the wondrous occasion of his boy living his reality, of course this was something to drink to, this was why they were here! -- but also because, either from courtesy or genuine respect for his adopted father, he <em> gave Theron </em>the honor of naming him. His boy, not of his kin in the physical, but considered such anyways, had asked to be named in the Orlesian tongue.</p><p>Olivier was embracing his heritage, embracing who he was and his life; he was content, his mind no doubt filled with new ambitions amongst his old worries. Surely, he was feeling more airy than Theron was at this moment. </p><p>So why was Theron hit with these sudden feelings? Was the winter cold becoming too hard for him to bear? What were these pangs plaguing his mind?</p><p>An elven servant of the tavern approached them from the kitchen, carrying over a tray with their first requested meal: assorted cheeses, sliced meats, and a sizable baguette to share. She refilled Theron’s goblet, and peeked into Olivier’s to find he’d only taken a couple of sips. She nodded politely and stepped back. </p><p>Olivier turned to her with his warm smile. </p><p>“<em>Ma serannas </em>,” he said, thanking her in their shared language.  His voice was gentle, but confident, pronunciation sounding natural and practiced.</p><p>She chuckled, eyes dropping, and replied in a thick Orlesian accent, “You’re welcome, sere.</p><p>“ ...That is what you said, yes?” She said after a pause. </p><p>He chuckled in return, embarrassingly brushing his bangs back with a nod.</p><p>“Yes. <em> Merci.”  </em></p><p>“<em> De rien </em>, sere.“ She nodded to them both, and went back inside. </p><p>“<em> Le cul d’Andraste </em> , <em> c’est beau. </em> You are learning a lot from your pack of <em> treehuggers </em>,” Theron teased, having another sip of wine. Then he broke off a piece of bread and fixed himself a sandwich. </p><p>Olivier ripped off a piece, but kept it in his hands. His fingers grazed the surface of the bread. His cheeks were flushed.</p><p>“But it feels great to be back in Val Royeaux,” he said, grabbing some slices of meat to top his bread. “It’s not as cold, here, either. The fields have been covered deep in snow, haven’t they? Whereas here, the snow is light.”</p><p>He was glad to be back? How wonderful. Theron smiled. </p><p>“Seeing the servants again... “ Olivier paused. His face softened.</p><p>“Reminds you of the past?” Theron asked gently.</p><p>"It just… saddens me,” Olivier took a bite of the sandwich, and they dined for a few minutes in silence. </p><p>“Knowing what more they could have, if they thought to leave.” </p><p>Guilt. That’s what this was, guilt. </p><p>Four months ago, Theron found his <em> amour </em> in a beautiful Dalish Free Marchian clan, Clan Lavellan. Which meant, after seven years, Olivier returned to a life with his kin. It was a process for the both of them to assimilate. Notably, they’d lived as a duo running a traveling caravan, lounging in the cheapest inns and taverns or the most luxurious (outside least dangerous) caverns they found. They’d spent their days keeping track of when and where to leave, and keeping watch for burglaries or hungry bears. Their worries all but vanished, as if they were cradled by the comfort of living with a hundred other elves willing to fight wildlife and the various species of Thedosian goons. </p><p>It was harder for Olivier. One afternoon, he’d been invited to hunt with them. He returned with only small game, while the rest carried back deer and the like. He told Theron all the times he could’ve shared in their bounties, but his mind and body left him, as memories of hunting with his long-dead father and brethren flooded back. </p><p>Now, though, he was beginning to embrace his <em> true </em> heritage — at a rapid pace. He’d been eagerly re-learning the Elven language with Dalana, Theron’s <em> amour, </em>hunting more often, listening to religious stories, or watching 18 year olds’ Vallaslin ceremony. </p><p>Theron was guilty that he had taken all that away from him. Seven years too late. The truth was, he was selfish for keeping him. Olivier should have been returned to a clan, given a family he belonged to. He would’ve been named something in their tongue. <em> Merde </em>, and the Maker knows all the things they could have done better with raising him...</p><p>What feelings about his father does he hide behind those eyes? When he stares off into the streets and marvels at the Orlesian lords and ladies pass by in their winter coats and shopping bags, at the elven servants following behind them like pets, at the merchants housed around the fountain wearing the identical armor of a man who stole a <em> child </em> among all the gold coin? </p><p>Olivier’s first visit to Val Royeaux. It was summer, blistering hot, and Theron’s suit did him no favors that day. He’d been with him for about half a year. The child, still very much Dalish and disobedient, was <em> used </em> to his mercantile affairs, but certainly not eager to follow. This particular trip to the capital of Orlais was vital. They were short -- on <em> everything </em> -- coin, food, and connections, and this was the last of Theron’s stock. Both of them were ecstatic to be there; Theron because he quickly grew tired of the Free Marches’ drab grassy landscape (the irony that he’s returned and made it his home), Olivier because the grandeur of the Golden City entrances everyone. </p><p>Theron looked to where today’s merchants stood, against the towering walls hiding a pier behind it. The jewelry seller at the far right, next to the apple tree, sat in the place he once took, with a stall of Theron’s last remaining weapons and chalices. He stood there into the evening, sleep-deprived and desperate for coin. They’d been on the road for several weeks, and the least he desired was a roof over their heads. By then, he’d stunk like a Mabari, uncomfortably drowning in his own sweat. Theron took on the scrutiny of the Orlesian nobility -- who, of course, questioned the make of his goods. Their feigned politeness extinguished as the sun charred their masks and singed their gelled hair. </p><p>Olivier sat behind him for hours, seated on discarded carpet, watching it all. What went through the boy’s mind? Unfortunately, back then, Theron was too thwarted to care. The next time he turned around, the boy was gone. That was immensely frightening, but it wasn’t enough to leave the stall. Making coin was the point of their trip. </p><p>
  <em> Disobedient rabbit -- you won’t be the cause of my bankruptcy.  </em>
</p><p>Off on his own, the boy must’ve got his first full swig of Orlais. He would see the life he could, and in some aspects would, live: the status, the wealth, the extravagant dress, and ridiculous social cues. He had returned later that evening, strangely silent. Seven years later, Theron never asked what happened.</p><p>Perhaps he didn’t need to. At least, not now. Theron was never a man of confrontation. With another satisfying swig of from the platinum goblet, he was just able to catch Olivier’s gaze at the jewelry seller’s stall. They met eyes in a slightly awkward, brief moment of silence, Theron bringing the goblet back up to his lips as the tips of Olivier’s lips lifted. Perhaps he also noted to try and bring it up on the ship ride back. </p><p>Regardless, the moment passed, and their conversation sprung up again; They spoke of the clan’s most recent travels, the gossip of blossoming romance, of possible new clanmates, of Olivier’s integration into the clan, and his vallaslin of choice. No amount of guilt could overshine the joy of seeing his boy revel in his culture. </p><p>Yes, alright, he is grown now. But Olivier i <em> s his </em>boy. The gesture in which they were celebrating was Olivier’s way of reminding him.</p>
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